


the green or the blue

by variable_fourteen



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Fade to Black, Fluff, Reader-Insert, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 05:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17891981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/variable_fourteen/pseuds/variable_fourteen
Summary: “Yeah?” He asks, looking at you from under his dark lashes. Slowly, like he has to convince himself of every movement, he presses his broad right palm to the bottom of his stomach. He doesn’t look at you but he spreads his thick fingers and you catch his last two quiver against the stiff material of the shirt.





	the green or the blue

**Author's Note:**

> this is literally only about ford wearing a buttondown and i'm sorry

Ford wanders into your bedroom with a shirt clutched in each six-fingered fist and a lost look whittled into the lines of his face. The little wrinkle between his eyebrows makes you giggle as he contemplates the shirts with an intensity usually reserved for the creepy things lurking in the forest. 

“I need your help.” He tears himself away from the clothes to look wide-eyed at where you are perched on the bed, calves tucked under your thighs and backbone straight in interest. 

“Which should I wear for the convention? The green or the blue?” He squints at the shirts. They are practically identical oxfords with tortoiseshell buttons and his initials (S.P.) embroidered in tiny hidden letters on the inside of the collar. 

You’ve never told him but you are embarrassingly familiar with daydreams of Professor Pines, disheveled and a little unattainable, wrapped in a just-too-tight oxford with his glasses glinting in the dusty fluorescent light of a lecture hall. 

“Try them on.” You can hear the edge of desire in your own voice and, considering the lopsided grin he gives you, he can hear it too. 

He throws the shirts at you before shrugging off his coat. Under your hands, the material is smooth and thick and you bring the collar of the blue one up to your nose. It holds a shadow of his usual scent, ink and dirt and a touch of cool peppermint, but it still warms that place deep in your body.

He ducks his head into his shoulder before crossing his arms and grabbing the bottom hem of the turtleneck to draw it off. Inches of his stomach, supple yet brimming with strength, come into view. Your fingers shiver to touch his skin, to rub through the familiar stretch of grey hair dipping into the line of his trousers. 

When he lifts his arms above his head you can see every divot and curve of his body, the subtle ridges of his ribs undulating with his breathing, and the shy flush hiding behind the thicker hair over his chest. His hard shoulders contort as he frees himself from the sweater and the roll of his shoulder blades is intoxicating. Then the ridiculous tattoo comes into view and you can’t help your smile. He wrenches his face from the narrow neck of the sweater, skewing his glasses, and his teeth sink into the swell of his bottom lip as he looks at you. 

One arm at a time, he draws the sleeves of the sweater off. The swell of his biceps shift under his faintly freckled skin and, even from here, you can see where the cool air has prickled goosebumps on his forearms. He folds the turtleneck into a crisp rectangle and sets it on the bed next to you, fingers lingering to straighten the collar.

“Which one first?” He speaks in a low voice and the overt edge of flirtation in his tone surprises you. In the laboratory, his lips are almost always quirked into a cocky smile, but here, with you, he is usually shy. Yet you can see confidence in his face and the set of his shoulders, and you try to suppress a shiver at the change. The weighty look he gives you assures you that you failed and his warm fingers brush purposefully over yours when you hand him the blue shirt.

He unbuttons the placket, fingers flying, and pulls it on. With a little shrug, he tests out the fit and his shoulders pull at the material. It’s probably a size too small, a relic from his early adulthood, and you wriggle to the edge of the bed in anticipation. 

His long, square fingers move to button the shirt, but you reach out and bat his hands away. The button is plastic and smooth under your thumb and you slot it into place after running the edge of your index finger over his hot skin. His stomach quivers at the touch and finally you realize your tiny ministrations are affecting him too.

The flat of your thumb runs up the ridges of his stomach, pressing into the softness there, until you reach the next button and close it. You consider drawing out the sweet task of dressing him but quickly shelve the idea for another time. Instead, you let your deft fingers dart up his chest, ready to see whether your daydreams can compare to reality. 

When you try the topmost button, the collar digs into the meat of his neck and refuses to close. His jaw clenches as the material chafes his skin and you generously leave it open. Two of your fingertips dive under the fabric to soothe him and to experience the differences between his forgiving and soft skin and the crisp, smooth shirt. Under your touch, his jaw relaxes, and he lets out a tiny contented sigh when you pet the stretches of his freshly flamed skin. Your thumbs move to flatten his sideburns before you bury your fingers into the thickness of his hair, scratching his scalp in a way you know he loves. 

He is watching you, eyes bright and wide, and his red tongue darts out to wet the seam of his lips. You slowly drag your palms over the length of his arms, reveling in the hard planes of his muscles. You grab the cuff of his left arm and fold it once, twice to expose his tawny forearms. 

His knees hit the edge of the mattress when you pull him close and you run your dry lips up the inside of his forearm, following the blue veins. His skin is surprisingly delicate there and, when you pause at his wrist, you feel the firm thumping of his pulse against your mouth. 

When you finish the action on his right side, you settle back on your heels to take in the full effect.

“Look at you.” You speak under your breath, eyes darting over him. 

A ruddy flush crawls from his neck to his cheeks and up to the tops of his ears but he lets you look. The rich blue compliments the warm flush of his skin and sets off his cloud of deep gray hair. He fidgets under your gaze, and the muscles of his forearms flutter as he flexes his fingers before pulling at the folded cuffs to straighten the sleeves. 

Delicately, he rolls his left shoulder, stretching the yoke, and the topmost buttons pull, not yet a gape but close, with the movement. The open collar frames his broad throat and, in the shadow of the material, you can see the shifting lines of his neck when he swallows and the shallow divot above his collarbone. A few scant centimeters of his hairy chest are visible and the exposed sliver paired with the knowledge that you know precisely what is underneath is undeniably sexy. The shirt follows his square torso, accentuating the slight taper of his waist and the leanness of his stomach. 

He isn’t breathing and you know it’s because of your stare. A little, self-conscious laugh escapes from between his lips.

“Do you like this?” He sounds incredulous, like he cannot believe the way you are looking at him. 

“Yes, Ford. Yeah, you look.” You trail off with a tiny shake of your head. Your eyes run up the length of his body to his face, hoping to show him your approval. 

“Yeah?” He asks, looking at you from under his dark lashes. Slowly, like he has to convince himself of every movement, he presses his broad right palm to the bottom of his stomach. He doesn’t look at you but he spreads his thick fingers and you catch the last two quiver against the stiff material of the shirt. 

He draws his fingers up his torso, a little too fast at first, but when he meets your eyes, he sees something that persuades him to slow to a languid, controlled slide. His hand rises and falls with his deep breathing as he touches himself and you have to sync your inhales with his to remind yourself to breathe. 

At his chest, his thumb brushes against his clothed nipple and he inhales sharply, gaze never leaving yours. When he reaches the top, his five fingers curl fleetingly around the base of his neck before his thumb flicks open the button, revealing the entirety of his collarbone and the curls blooming over his chest. You gasp and, emboldened, he runs his fingertips back down the line of buttons, a self-satisfied smile lingering on his features. 

“Come here Ford.” You speak, fighting through the dryness in the back of your throat. He obeys immediately, stepping closer and jolting the mattress back against the wall with his strong thighs. You rise to your knees and press yourself against him, head resting on the firm pillow of his chest and arms sliding over the smooth cotton of the back of the shirt. The rigid buttons press into your skin and his belt buckle digs into the softness of your stomach. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch his hands flutter and you anticipate the weight of them on your back or in your hair. Instead, he stops himself, fingers spread an inch above your shoulders. He stares blindly into the space over your head. You can hear his heart beating. 

“Hey.” Your voice pierces the air and his eyes refocus and dart to yours. “You want to tell me what you’re thinking about?” 

Indecision flickers over his features and you hide your head against his chest, hoping to give him the space to gather his thoughts. Silence crawls through the air and, despite your comfortable position, uncertainty pricks your stomach. He inhales, resolute, and you brace yourself. 

“Sometimes I wish I had known you earlier.” He blushes but his confident fingers press into your chin, encouraging you to look at him. His face is so close; he is the only thing you can focus on. “You make me feel wanted.” 

His big hands hold you in place as he dips lower to press his lips to yours. He gives you a few sweet kisses, reinforcing the weight of what he’s said. Right before you are about to press your tongue to the seam of his lips, the edge of his teeth scrape against your bottom lip and you gasp at his boldness. He takes advantage and slips the wet muscle of his tongue into your mouth. Your hands clutch at his hair, pressing him closer and he groans between you. 

When you pull away, the cool air tingles you slick mouth. You take in the red on his lips, the color at the height of his cheeks, and, behind his glasses, the heavy weight of his eyelids. 

“I want you, Ford.” You whisper, sensitive lips moving against his own, and you pull back to see his eyes widen, mouth dropping open with a soft groan. You grab the lapels of the shirt and drag him into a desperate kiss. 

He follows you when you lean back on your hands to wiggle toward the top of the bed. The kisses get messy as he climbs onto the uneven surface of the mattress. The headboard hits your back with a dull sound and he crowds against you, balanced on his knees and gripping the wood with all twelve fingers. A touch of fog blurs the innermost corner of his glasses and heat rolls off his body in waves. 

He closes the minuscule distance between you for another kiss, but you stop him with a press of your palm to the center of his chest.

“Wait, don’t you have another shirt to show me?” You speak with a little laugh and he shakes his head, eager eyes never leaving your lips.

“It can wait.” His lips brush the corner of your mouth as he speaks and he steals a tiny kiss before you pull away to rest your head against the headboard. At this angle, you can see the desire written plainly across his face. 

“I want you,” you repeat in an almost imperceptible murmur. You grab the back of his neck and show him.


End file.
